


Drag me Down

by Cassy27



Series: Nessun Dorma [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fiskley, M/M, Shower-scene, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassy27/pseuds/Cassy27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wesley.”<br/>And there it was; the voice that could make him or break him, and today, it seemed to be doing both. Wesley looked up to find light brown eyes gazing at him. Worry lined Wilson’s features and while Wesley wanted to caress those lines away from Wilson’s face, he also wanted to scream at him and curse him. He wanted to push him, hit him, scratch him, and hurt him. </p><p>Wilson fears Wesley will betray him. Wesley can’t believe Wilson would dare to think such thoughts. But then Matthew comes into play and Wesley realizes Wilson’s fears might be justified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drag me Down

**Author's Note:**

> Here is part 3 of the series! I'm having a lot of fun with this series :D I didn't add the 'non-con'-tag this time. Everyone consents, but I do want to warn that the scene between Wilson and Wesley takes a dark turn. Still, it's all consensual. 
> 
> Thank you, GreenLoki, for being my awesome beta! :D
> 
> Enjoy!

His muscles felt sore – not that he would ever admit it.

With Muzakstill playing softly in the background, the elevator came to a halt and the metal door slipped open, revealing a long, grey hall with guards lined up at regular intervals along the wall. Wesley stepped out of the small cubicle, walking past the guards and ignoring them. It had been a long and tiring day, after all, and he just wanted to lock himself in the bathroom for a while and stand under the hot rays of water until they turned cold.

He approached the door with the number 1705, only for one of the guards to step in his way, preventing him from opening the door with his personal key-card. Wesley’s gaze snapped towards the man whose face was half hidden by sunglasses, the other half covered with a thick beard. He had never seen him before and he already disliked him.

“Mr. Fisk doesn’t want to be disturbed at the moment,” The guard said.

Eyes narrowing and muscles tensing – which didn’t help the ache already possessing them – Wesley slowly turned towards the man, glaring at him. He considered taking the gun out of the guard’s holster and putting the barrel against his temple.

Perhaps it was for the best that another guard quickly stepped in, one Wesley knew by name.

“My apologies, Sir,” Marcus said as he pushed his idiot of a colleague back, “Portman here is new.”

“Obviously,” Wesley grumbled, because after the day he’d had, he was not in the mood to deal with untrained guards who didn’t even know who he was, “Get rid of him.” The guy should feel lucky and grateful that he was only getting fired.

“Of course, Sir,” Marcus said with a firm nod.

Once the door closed behind him, Wesley’s muscles relaxed again. He didn’t officially live here, but considering the amount of days and nights he spent here, he might as well. Coming to this place, to Wilson, felt like coming home in a way. It offered … stability, because in the madness of Hell’s Kitchen, Wilson was the only constant in his life.

Wesley kicked off his shoes, trying to make as little noise as possible, because if Wilson had warned the guards that he didn’t want to be disturbed – with the exception of him, of course – it meant that he was working.

Silently, he made his way towards the bathroom, inhaling deeply as his entire state of mind settled. Time with Matt Murdock was intense and exhausting.

Once inside the luxurious bathroom, Wesley took off his glasses and shrugged off his jacket. Next, he unbuttoned the light blue dress shirt. With his torso bare, he took the time to observe himself. The cut to his lower lip was what drew his initial attention, because it stung. On his way from Matt’s apartment to Wilson’s, it had begun to bleed again and small drops of blood stuck to his chin.

Then there was the bruise to the side of his face where Matt had knocked his elbow against his cheek. It had happened not four hours ago, so the colors were still dark, the effusion of blood still fresh underneath the skin. And then there was the obvious black eye, half concealed by his glasses.

Wesley sighed and tore his gaze away from the mirror, focusing instead on the faucet, turning on the water.

It was as he splashed some cold water into his face that he heard it – footsteps followed by the door opening. Looking up, Wesley spotted Wilson through the mirror, and, standing in the doorway, the man appeared larger than he already was. His light brown eyes raked up his body, slowly, haltingly, at which point Wesley remembered the scratch-marks Matt had so generously left on his back.

But Wilson didn’t explode in a bout of jealousy. Instead, he entered the bathroom and sighed a pained: “Wesley.” As soon as he was close enough, he placed a hand on Wesley’s shoulder and turned him around. With his other, he reached up and cupped Wesley’s chin, tilting it back a little.

“It looks worse than it is,” Wesley smiled reassuringly.

“It didn’t go well?”

Wilson traced Wesley’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. When he got to the cut, it began to bleed again. Wesley hissed and instinctively pulled back from the touch – or tried to at least. Wilson’s grip on his chin tightened to keep him in place and the touch turned from soft to possessive.

“I will destroy him for this,” Wilson growled angrily. His eyes flashed with vindication.

“No,” Wesley argued. His hand latched onto Wilson’s wrist, holding on tightly without trying to remove it, because that wasn’t what he wanted. He loved Wilson’s greedy hands on his body and he always felt privileged for being the center of Wilson’s desires. “It went well,” He explained and, as soon as he did, Wilson’s grip loosened, “It was a challenge, definitely, but I got him where I wanted in the end.”

Wilson released Wesley’s chin and brushed the back of his hand down the uninjured side of his face, the gesture expressing adoration. “I don’t wish to know …” He started, the words having trouble leaving his lips, as they often did when he felt pressure, a heavy weight pushing on his shoulders, “… how those marks got on your back.”

Wesley leaned into Wilson’s touch. He lowered his hands and folded them around Wilson’s sides. “They’ll be gone soon enough,” He said. And then they will be replaced by new ones, but that was a thought he didn’t share.

For a long moment, Wilson stared into Wesley’s eyes, and while so many thoughts obviously flitted through his mind, he kept them to himself. He took a towel lying by the sink and, after dampening it using hot water from the faucet, he tenderly and carefully cleaned the blood sticking to Wesley’s chin.

“ _Wesley_ ,” He started after a long silence, and the sound of his voice was so soft, so cautious, that Wesley thought he would melt in Wilson’s hands, or perhaps fall to his knees and worship him in any way he could, “Let me wash him from your body.” He lowered the towel and wiped a long line down Wesley’s neck, to his collarbone.

His eyes fluttered shut – because of the warmth of the towel, because of the softness of Wilson’s touches, because of the way Wilson said his name …

“Yes,” He consented.

As much as he enjoyed Matt’s touch on his body, as much as he enjoyed the idea that it left some kind of residue on his skin, he much preferred Wilson’s caresses. The contact they shared often made him feel like a low current of electricity flowed just underneath his skin.

With determined movements, Wesley unzipped his trousers and removed them, leaving him completely naked. A shiver ran down his spine. Wilson was the only man on this earth who has seen him like this; naked, vulnerable and exposed. The first time it happened, he’d panicked. He hadn’t been able to breathe, hadn’t known what to do as Wilson’s gaze had devoured his body, but Wilson had also held back. There had been nothing but careful, shy touches, after which Wesley’s admiration and devotion for the man had only grown.

That was four years ago. Today, standing in the bathroom, the white tiles cold beneath his bare feet, Wesley would give anything to have Wilson’s hands on his body, to have them claim him, mark him, and possess him.

Wesley’s hands slipped from Wilson’s sides to his chest. He could feel his heart beating strongly underneath his fingertips.

Wilson tossed the towel aside and curled his hands around Wesley’s. He leaned forward until his breath grazed across Wesley’s face. Wilson was toying with him, was causing his head to spin, and, unable to hold back anymore, Wesley closed the distance between them. He pressed his lips against Wilson’s, moaning at the feeling of Wilson’s lips parting for him. A tinge of whiskey lingered on Wilson’s tongue and Wesley chased it.

Wilson’s hands let go of his and slipped down to his hips. He pushed at them, forcing Wesley to walk backwards while their lips moved against each other, refusing to unlock. Wilson guided him into the walk-in shower and only when Wesley’s back hit the glass wall did Wilson step back. Without Wilson’s touch, Wesley felt cold and bare as he was left standing on shaking legs. His chest was heaving, lungs desperate for air after such a long and intense kiss.

With eager eyes, Wesley watched Wilson rid himself of his clothes. Wilson’s broadness took his breath away – as always – and every fiber of his being desired Wilson’s body against his, hot and rough. He wanted Wilson’s hands bruising his skin and he wanted his teeth marking him, but he was surprisingly gentle today.

Once undressed, Wilson positioned himself before Wesley, his light brown eyes full of promise. He let the warm water of the shower pour over his lover’s head and watched as it ran down the sides of his face and across his shoulders. Steam rose and engulfed the both of them.

Wilson’s eyes never left Wesley’s as he poured a generous amount of soap into the palm of his hand. With determined movements, he lifted the hand and began to clean Wesley’s chest, using slow, circular motions. Wilson’s hands treaded Wesley’s body as if it were uncharted terrain. He explored every dent and scar, every curve and line, even though he’d had the privilege of feeling and tasting Wesley’s body a long time ago.

“Turn around,” Wilson ordered suddenly.

Wesley didn’t even have to think about the action. He turned and, because he was in desperate need of balance, he placed the palms of his hands against the damp glass wall before him. Wilson continued to wash him, hands now brushing down his back and over the swell of his ass. Then the tips of his fingers dragged across Wesley’s hips, to his lower stomach.

They slipped down towards his crotch.

“Wilson …” Wesley gasped once he understood Wilson’s intentions. He didn’t stop the man, though, he never would, and when Wilson’s hand curled around his cock, stroking it once, twice, to semi-hardness, Wesley pressed his forehead against the cool glass. His eyes fluttered shut and his body shivered against Wilson’s.

“Have I ever told you the story of Candaules?” Wilson asked suddenly.

Wesley frowned and glanced over his shoulder. He found Wilson smiling at him with a dangerous glint in his eyes. It was enough to install cautious within him.

“No, I don’t believe you have,” He answered hesitantly. He shook his head before he let it rest against the glass wall again. He feared he might actually fall to his knees and beg Wilson to pick up the pace if he continued to torture him with such agonizingly slow strokes.

And he feared for what else he would catch in Wilson’s gaze.

“Candaules was king of a land called Lydia,” Wilson started.

Wesley groaned, not entirely in the mood to listen to a story, and Wilson punished him by squeezing the base of his cock, no longer stroking it. Wesley bit down on his tongue, refusing to make another sound – until Wilson gradually began to pump him again, at which point he released a relieved and wistful sigh.

“He liked to brag about the beauty of his queen to a beloved bodyguard named Gyges.” Wilson ran the tip of his nose down the side of Wesley’s neck, tracing the rapidly pulsing vein there before he moved to the back of his shoulders and let his teeth graze against the skin, teasing him. “But Gyges didn’t believe his King, so Candaules told the guard that he should observe her beauty himself.”

“Wilson–” Teeth sinking into his shoulder instantly silenced him.

Wesley let his head fall back and parted his lips in a silent ‘o’. He willed Wilson to bite him again, but the man merely continued the story. Wesley swallowed away his protests and focused on Wilson’s hand around his length, which was lavishing him with attention and forcing pleasure to course through his veins.

“They agreed that Gyges would hide in the queen’s chamber one evening to watch her undress before she would go to sleep,” Wilson said with a voice barely above a whisper. The words were nearly drowned out under the sound of water running down their bodies. “And he did. Gyges found her beauty stunning, found it mesmerizing, and being so captivated by her, he was unable to leave her chambers undetected. The queen caught him and, enraged and betrayed, she gave him a choice.”

Wesley’s nails scratched at the glass when he could feel his orgasm near, but Wilson could feel it to, and whenever Wesley threatened to climax, Wilson simply held him and squeezed his cock, forcing the orgasm back. Wesley whimpered when Wilson pressed him against the glass, trapping him and stripping him of whatever ounce of control he thought he had.

“Will you let me–?”

“After,” Wilson promised. When the trembling in Wesley’s body subsided a little, Wilson’s hand dipped between Wesley’s legs and squeezed his balls. He continued with the story then, driving Wesley closer and closer towards insanity.

“Either Gyges or his king, Candaules, had to die.” Wilson played with Wesley’s balls for a few moments, and Wesley, being so focused on the touch, jumped when a finger suddenly circled his entrance. He could feel Wilson’s erection press against his thigh, but Wilson seemed too lost in his mind, in the story, to give himself any thought. “Gyges begged the queen for mercy, begged her not to force such a decision upon him, but the queen was without mercy. Gyges chose life and, with a dagger provided by the queen, he awaited the king in his chambers the next evening.”

Wesley didn’t know whether to push back against the finger teasing his hole or to thrust his hips forward once Wilson began to stroke him again. Pre-cum dripped from the slit of his cock and Wesley whined softly, the noise meant as a plea. He wanted, _needed_ , Wilson to pick up the pace, to jerk him off and grant him release.

“Gyges murdered his king, Candaules, as he lay sleeping,” Wilson said, a sudden sharpness to his voice, refueling the caution Wesley had previously experienced. It now moved around Wesley’s chest like a claw, suffocating him. “And the queen was pleased, for she had gotten her vengeance.”

With sudden brutality, Wilson shoved one finger inside Wesley’s body while vigorously and savagely pumping his cock. It pushed Wesley over the edge, made him cum with a strangled cry as he grasped at the glass wall, searching for purchase in a vain attempt.

“And afterwards,” Wilson concluded even though Wesley could barely form any coherent thoughts as it were, “The queen married Gyges who became the father to the Mermnad Dynasty.”

As soon as Wilson’s touch disappeared, as soon as the anchor that was his warm body vanished, Wesley fell to his knees, unable to stay on his feet anymore. All strength had left his body. With his head hung low, water still pouring down, he gasped for air and desperately tried to gain back control over his body and mind, but they no longer felt his own. They belonged to Wilson.

Wilson turned the water off and the sudden silence threatening to break Wesley.

Wesley moved to sit down in the corner of the shower and stared up at Wilson – his boss, his love, his bane. There was coldness in those light brown eyes, detachment even. The claw around his chest hurt when caution slowly twisted into panic.

“Is there a point?” He asked. He hated that his voice sounded as fragile as it did.

Wilson wrapped a towel around his middle and grabbed another one. He positioned himself in front of Wesley, towering above him, staring down at him, and held out the towel for Wesley to take – which he did, because he felt really fucking desperate to cover up suddenly, to feel just a little bit less exposed.

“I know your intentions,” Wilson said. His anger, which Wesley had failed to recognize before, of which he’d only spotted faint traces, lit up his eyes like a raging fire burning inside of him. “You hope to break Murdock, to mold him into something usable, but there is a different side to it, isn’t there?”

Wesley couldn’t bring himself to move, not even to wipe away the water dripping from his hair into his eyes.

“It feels like I am dangling you in front of him, tempting him with what he _could_ have, with what I _do_ have,” Wilson explained and with every word leaving his lips, his body became more rigid. He no longer looked at Wesley, his gaze instead fixed on empty space. His hands had become tight fists. “You are the queen, _Wesley_ –” The way in which he forced out his name physically hurt him, “–and Murdock is the guard.”

Wesley flinched when Wilson punched the glass wall of the shower suddenly, cracking it. There were tears in his eyes suddenly.

“You think I would choose him over you?” He asked venomously. The mere idea made him nauseous.

“That is not the point!” Wilson burst. He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head, and when he finally, _finally_ , looked down at Wesley again, there was aversion in his gaze. His mouth was a taut set of lines. “Have you not listened? The choice was never the queen’s, the choice was Gyges’, but you are the one who could offer it to Murdock.”

Wesley took a moment to get a grip on himself and to compose himself. With his legs still shaking, he stood and folded the towel tightly around his body. He wanted nothing more than to disappear from the bathroom, to put as much distance between him and Wilson as he could, but he made himself no illusions. Wilson would never let him leave before this conversation had ended on his terms.

“Murdock is … intriguing,” Wilson said when Wesley wasn’t quite ready to speak yet, “That darkness you spotted in him, which no one else did, you find it fascinating. You wish to dissect him, to tear him apart and piece him back together with your own hands, I know you do. And what if all that becomes more alluring as time passes? What if Murdock ends up offering you more than what I ever could?”

The more he spoke, the more his anger dissipated. Wilson slowly transformed from an angry crime-lord to a man in fear of losing his partner. But Wesley couldn’t bring himself to care, not while so many accusations had been hurled his way, because no matter how insecure Wilson felt, it didn’t erase the fact that he thought so little of Wesley to begin with.

“And then I would offer him a choice,” Wesley said, understanding now. There was hostility in his voice, a sentiment Wilson obviously didn’t appreciate going by the vicious curling of his upper lip, but Wesley pushed on. “Either he refuses to bend to my will, choosing death, or he gives into the darkness and kills you on his path to becoming the king of Hell’s Kitchen, replacing you.”

The words seemed to cut Wilson.

With newfound strength, fueled by the humiliation and betrayal he felt, Wesley finally pushed himself away from the glass wall and closed the distance between him and Wilson. The air between them was cold and lethal. The idea of Wilson’s hands on his body repulsed him right now.

Wesley let out a hollow laugh. “You continue to surprise me,” He said with an eerily calm voice, “After everything I have done for you, after proving my loyalty to you, again and again, you still think I would stab you in the back?”

He shoved at Wilson’s shoulders, forcing him aside so that he could exit the shower. Wilson let out a startled breath, but Wesley refused to look at him. Wilson had hurt him, not for the first time, but there was something innately intimate about their fight this time. Never before had Wesley felt so demeaned by him. Never before had he felt so worthless because of Wilson’s words.

“Wesley–”

“Thank you for the tale,” Wesley snapped as he quickly got dressed without bothering to dry himself first, “It was enlightening.”

Wilson called out his name again, but Wesley stormed out of the bathroom, leaving the man behind without sparing him another glance.

Fury settled in his bones, driving him onwards and causing his head to pound mercilessly, the pain maddening, but distracting at the same time. He refused to stay in Wilson’s apartment, refused to stay with a man who was waiting on nothing but his betrayal.

Once dressed properly, he stormed out of the apartment and into the hallway, seeking the elevator at the end of it, needing to get away, to escape, only for his gaze to shift towards a man with a thick, well-trimmed beard – Portman.

Portman stood with Marcus as they had been talking quietly, but at his appearance, they’d stopped and turned to him.

“What is he still doing here?” Wesley demanded, his heated eyes shifting between the two men.

“Sir,” Portman started, “I wanted to apologize for my mistake earlier. I didn’t recognize you and–”

“You were to fire him,” Wesley fumed, gaze snapping towards Marcus.

Without thinking, because all his thoughts were obliterated by the pulsating pain near his temples, he grabbed the gun holstered at Marcus’ side and aimed it at Portman’s head.

Portman stumbled back and lifted his hands as a way of surrender.

“Sir!” Marcus shouted.

Wesley fired, planting a bullet right in between Portman’s wide, shocked eyes. Blood and brain matter splattered across the wall behind him, as well as on Wesley’s face, and the man fell down, dead. Wesley stared at him, at the body, while the gunshot echoed loudly through his head, drowning out everything else. He was breathing hard and heavy, and his hand was clenched so tightly around the hilt of the gun that it hurt.

Marcus kneeled down by the body – as if there was something he could do to save the man.

Somehow the world around Wesley slowed down. More guards rushed towards him, but no one dared to speak to him, let alone touch him. Everyone knew whom he belonged to after all. They all glanced at each other, unsure of what to do, and Wesley couldn’t think of a single word to say. He faintly registered a door swinging open and heavy footsteps rushing towards them, Wesley only had attention for the body. He could only stare at it, at the man he’d murdered in a flash of rage.

A soft, warm hand curled around his wrist suddenly. Wesley instantly recognized the touch, and yet he couldn’t help but glance down, unsure whether the hand was really there or not. But it was and fingers brushed against the inner side of his wrist, gently, carefully, soothingly.

“ _Wesley_.”

And there it was; the voice that could make him or break him, and today, it seemed to be doing both. Wesley looked up to find light brown eyes gazing at him. Worry lined Wilson’s features and while Wesley wanted to caress those lines away from Wilson’s face, he also wanted to scream at him and curse him. He wanted to push him, hit him, scratch him, and _hurt_ him.

Wilson pried the gun from Wesley’s hand – Wesley who held it so tightly his knuckles had turned white – and handed it back to Marcus. “Clean this mess up,” He ordered, “You know the procedure.”

“Yes, Sir,” Marcus said.

“Come, Wesley,” Wilson sighed.

Wesley leaned into the hands guiding him back towards the apartment. One last time, he looked over his shoulder and watched Marcus drag Portman’s body away with the help of other guards, and then Wilson walked with him through the door and closed it behind them. The silence hit Wesley like a slap in the face. He wished the echoes of the gunshot would return to him, because then, at least, he would have something to focus on other than Wilson’s hands around his wrists.

“Sit,” Wilson ordered.

Wesley found himself obeying.

They were in the dining room. Wesley’s gaze slipped along the windows that started at the floor and ended at the ceiling. It was another warm day, the sun blaring down on the city and reflecting off of the buildings. Moments passed and only when Wilson returned did Wesley realize he had left in the first place.

Wilson carded his fingers through Wesley’s hair and finally, _finally,_ Wesley glanced down at the man having kneeled before him.

“My words … I did not realize that they would cause you such … grief.” Wilson used the towel to wipe away the blood that had gotten on Wesley’s face, but he didn’t look at him, not really. He seemed physically unable to, so Wesley placed the tip of his finger to the underside of Wilson’s chin and titled it back until their gazes locked. “My accusations … they were unfounded.”

“You’re damn right they were,” Wesley said sharply, but he leaned forward nonetheless and pressed his lips against Wilson’s.

Wilson tossed the towel onto the table next to them and placed his hands on either side of Wesley’s face, holding him. Wesley’s hands clutched the collar of Wilson’s vest, pulling him as close as possible while he let his tongue explore every inch of Wilson’s mouth, devouring it, already having missed it.

When they parted, they pressed their foreheads together, sharing air.

“There is blood on the both of us now,” Wilson said, humor in his voice, but only a hint of it. He was testing the waters, testing Wesley’s state of mind. When Wesley didn’t respond, when he simply continued to gaze into Wilson’s light brown eyes, Wilson sighed and closed his eyes. “Forgive me, Wesley,” He said, pained.

Wesley took in the regret in Wilson’s features, and how could he ever deny this man anything? This was the man who had offered him the world when he’d had nothing. This was the man who had made him the center of his universe, the man who had fallen in love with him for who he was, not who he could be.

This was the man Wesley would die for, no matter how cruel he’d just been.

This was the man he loved.

“I do,” He said, a smile playing across his lips, “I forgive you.”

• • •

The only advantage of the late hour was the fact that the temperature had dropped to the low sixties. Wesley, standing to the side, concealed by shadows, watched Nobu’s men unload stolen crates full of Stark weapons from a container. They loaded them up on a truck that would bring them to Gao in exchange for a very generous sum of money. Gao needed to protect her workers after all.

The men worked as fast as they could, but it still wasn’t fast enough. Wesley became impatient. Yes, he could just go home since he actually had very little to do with this business – this was Nobu’s business – but then the entire would have been wasted, and he was still convinced they would get a visitor.

He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and glanced at the time. It was well past midnight and they still had half a container to go. Wesley leaned back against the outer wall of an abandoned warehouse and forced away the desire to order Nobu’s men to work faster.

It wasn’t like Wilson was waiting for him at his apartment anyway. No, Wilson was attending to business himself, away from the city, and he would only be back tomorrow evening. Wesley opened his inbox and re-read the last message Wilson had sent. It was an update on business, nothing special really, but Wesley enjoyed reading it again every once in a while. He enjoyed reminding himself that business was going really, really well.

A dull thud by the container caused apprehension to settle in his bones. Wesley pushed himself away from the wall and straightened his back. He didn’t leave the shadows, though, not yet. He wanted to see what would happen before he’d actually intervene. There was only one logical explanation as to why one of the men had suddenly disappeared, which was all the more reason to tread carefully.

Another guy went to investigate, a gun in his hand, but before he could release a single shot, a pair of hands dragged him into the darkness. Another dull thud sounded – like a head being knocked against the side of a container – and then all hell broke loose.

Matt Murdock left the shadows and took out another guard, pushing him into the icy water. Someone opened fire on him, but Matt jumped aside and, after rolling onto his back, he kicked out a foot. The man fell back and Matt knocked his fist into his face, knocking him out with one single punch. It was rather pathetic to see.

More men opened fire, but Matthew, being so swift and agile, darted between the bullets.

Truthfully, it was amazing to watch him fight, to watch him move without making a single sound, but the situation was getting ridiculous now. If Wilson were here, he would execute all these men personally, because they were over a dozen of them and Matt was just a man – a _blind_ man nonetheless. And still they were getting their asses kicked.

Wesley stepped out of the shadows, revealing himself, but Matt was too busy fighting petty criminals to notice him. He could take hold of the gun he kept hidden by the small of his back and just shoot him – he would not miss – but then everything he had been building towards would be lost. No, this called for another approach.

“Matthew.”

That was all it took; saying his name caused Matt to spin around.

Wesley lifted a hand, silently ordering the men to stand down, to not touch Matt again, because as of right now, Matthew was his. And it was breathtaking to look at him. A few of the men had been able to land a punch or two and blood trickled down Matt’s nose. A bruise was already forming on the side of his skin and the black sweater he wore was torn by his shoulder.

Matt’s chest was heaving up and down, muscles rippling underneath the tight outfit with every breath he took, and his hands were tight fists at his sides. Everything about him screamed bottled up anger and tension and, right now, it was all directed towards him.

Wesley was adamant about controlling those sentiments and, knowing Matt, he had a feeling the man would let him. Eventually.

“Wesley,” Matt said gruffly, “Does Fisk have you reduced to babysitting duties now?”

Wesley wished he could see his eyes, but they were concealed by a black blindfold. True, they made his lips stand out all the more, Wesley’s attention zeroing in on them, but there was just something compelling about those hazel eyes that lacked direction. Wesley enjoyed gazing into those eyes, enjoyed seeing every small emotion flit behind them, because there was little Matt could hide in a state like this. Not from him at least.

“Oh, no,” Wesley answered the question, smiling. For the first time tonight, things were getting interesting. “I was waiting for you to show up and, I must say, you took your time.”

If possible, Matt tensed even more. He turned his head a little, seemingly focusing on the sounds around him, and Wesley wondered what he was searching for. He knew Matt could hear everyone’s heartbeat as well as footsteps that were too soft for a normal person to hear. And then it made sense. Wesley chuckled at the realization.

“This isn’t a trap,” He assured the man who looked seconds away from either fighting or fleeing – though knowing Matt, he would choose the fight-option, “I’m not interested in catching you. We’ve been there and have done that, haven’t we?”

Matt growled. Undoubtedly, memories of their time spent together in the old and abandoned factory, tied to a rusty, old chair, completely powerless, were rushing back to him. Wesley could tell by the way his hands twitched at his sides. His jaw locked in place to prevent any forbidden sounds from leaving his lips.

“Always a man of few words,” Wesley grinned. He folded his hands before his stomach and took a step forward. He paused then, gauging Matthew’s reaction, and when the man didn’t step back, Wesley took another step forward, and another. If he reached out a hand, he could touch him. “Tell me, Matthew, what do you want?”

“Fisk.”

The swiftness of the answer took Wesley off guard. He blinked and tried to place the answer, tried to comprehend the underlying meaning of it, only to come to the conclusion that it really was quite a simple answer. Wilson was the reason Matt had put on the mask, why he put himself through torture every evening.

This was Matt’s attempt to focus on the task at hand, on his quest, which Wesley simply could not let happen.

“The answer is disappointing, really,” He sighed.

“I know you have a gun hidden behind your back,” Matt said, “I can smell the metal. Do you think Fisk will come and find me if I were to grab it and shoot you with it?”

“It’s admirable what you try to do,” Wesley said as he slowly took back control over the situation, over the conversation, because the last thing he wanted to discuss was Wilson. That wasn’t why he was here. “Not many would put on a mask and risk their lives every night to help their city.”

He lifted a hand and traced the edge of Matt’s blindfold, the tips of his fingers brushing along his cheek as he did. Matt’s hand latched onto Wesley’s wrist, holding on tightly, but still he didn’t pull away, didn’t push Wesley away.

“What are you doing?” Matt demanded with a tight, sharp voice.

“I thought it was obvious,” Wesley said, confused. Matthew was a smart man, after all, and he couldn’t be that naïve. Stubbornly, decisively, Wesley used his free hand to press it against Matt’s chest and, ah, there it was, the racing of his heart, betraying the turmoil that was twisting inside of him.

Matt jumped back suddenly, his entire body trembling. “No, I’m done with your manipulations,” He gritted out.

“Is that what you call it?” Wesley asked, surprised. “As far as I’m aware, you’ve always known my intentions."

“Distractions then,” Matt snapped.

Wesley sighed dejectedly. “Why can’t you call it what it is?”

“Which is?”

“Sex.”

Wesley watched Matthew flinch. It was for these exact reasons that he wished he could see those hazel eyes. Considering the taut line of his lips, it was fair to assume that Matt felt driven into a corner. The flush creeping up his neck, to his cheeks, betrayed that he felt flustered, but his gaze could reveal so much more. Did he feel frustration, too? Shame?

“You’re a man with … special needs,” He continued when it became clear that Matt wasn’t going to speak, “And I’m a man more than happy to satisfy those needs.”

“No,” Matt said, shaking his head. He took another step back, a small one, a hesitant one, and Wesley took it as the first sign that he was breaking. Was the realization that he wanted it as much as Wesley claimed he did a shock? Did it repulse him? Sure, the first time had been … more than dubious, but the second time, in Matt’s apartment, he had freely, fiercely, given into his desires. “No, you’re temptation. You’re a test thrown in my way, an obstacle on my path towards Fisk.”

“There’s that Catholicism I’ve been waiting to glimpse,” Wesley said, “The need to be a good, Catholic boy, to do what is right, to make a difference, and truly, Matthew …” He walked forward, taking small steps, observing Matt’s reaction and finding that he seemed unable to move. He wasn’t even breathing. “… I adore you for it.”

Matt lunged forward, hands grabbing Wesley’s vest and pulling him forward. Matt’s lips crashed against his, wild and frantic, and Wesley happily kissed him back. He wrapped his arms around Matt’s waist, their bodies pressed together. Wesley parted his lips and allowed Matt entrance – Matt who groaned wantonly into his mouth and melted into his touch.

But as quickly as it started, it ended. Matthew tore himself away from Wesley’s hands and turned his back on him. His head hung low and his shoulders were tense. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides and his breath left his lungs in short, shallow bursts.

“Temptation,” He repeated, pained.

Wesley, catching his breath, too, took a moment to glance around. The men had finished unloading the container and were waiting for further instructions. Their eyes were fixed on the scene unfolding before them, on Wesley and Matthew. Some looked indifferent while others seemed unable to comprehend what was happening, but none of it mattered. Wesley couldn’t care less about them, about what they thought of all … this.

Pleased, he pointed at the loaded truck, the gesture enough to tell the men that they were good to go.

“Or a distraction,” Wesley echoed Matt’s previous word and drawing his attention back to him. He straightened his vest and ran a hand through his hair. There was no denying the strong effect Matthew had on him, how his presence caused his inner balance to shift. “And I want to thank you for your cooperation.”

Matt’s head snapped up and he glanced over his shoulder at him. Not for the first time Wesley wondered what it was that he saw. Did the blindfold attenuate the burning world around him? Could he distinguish his silhouette in the darkness?

“You …” Matthew’s anger was overtaken by bewilderment, but as swiftly as the emotions settled, they disappeared – or at least, he suppressed them. His head momentarily snapped towards the truck, the pieces of the puzzle instantly clicking into place, and he let out a frightfully hollow laugh. “I underestimate you, Wesley, time after time.”

“People often do,” Wesley said sadly. There was no denying that it held certain advantages and that it was one of the reasons why he’d climbed to such a high position in Wilson’s organization and managed to hold it, but it still stung. “We will speak again, Matthew,” He said as he walked towards the truck waiting to pull out of the port, waiting on him, “I already look forward to it.”

“Wesley!” Matt called out.

Wesley halted and turned to Matt, waiting for what he had to say.

“If you think you’ll be my downfall, then you’re mistaken,” He said with only conviction in his voice, “He who digs a pit for another will fall into it. And he who rolls a stone, it will come back on him. Isn’t that the saying?” Wesley stared at Matt, stared at the conviction radiating off of him. It punched Wesley in the gut like an iron fist, knocking all air out of him. “What you’re doing, what we are doing, the _sex_ as you so blatantly call it, is not one-sided.”

Wilson’s story of Candaules came crashing into his mind. _‘The choice was never the queen’s, the choice was Gyges’, but you are the one who could offer it to Murdock.’_

“I question myself every day, ever since you came to me that night at the old factory,” Matt continued and, for the first time, Wesley wanted him to shut up. He hated the strength of his voice, the confidence lacing every word he uttered. “I wonder why I give in – into you, into the games, into the darkness – and I wonder how you make it so easy.” He paused to wet his lips. “Don’t you?”

Wesley had no words. What could he possibly say to such a cruel truth? Did he ever wonder? No, never, because the idea of where it could lead him was absolutely terrifying. The idea that he would get so caught up in his own intricate web of lies that it would lead to betrayal, to losing Wilson … He’d rather not give it any thought, but here Matthew was, throwing it all into his face, forcing him to acknowledge the possible consequences of his actions.

“I can hear your heart racing, I can hear the shallowness of you breathing, and if you think any harder, I’m sure I’ll be able to hear that, too,” Matt said. He reached up and removed the blindfold, revealing his hazel brown eyes, eyes that instantly sought out Wesley, but never quite finding him.

“We all play dangerous games,” Wesley said, finally able to use his voice again. He gazed at Matt with newfound strength and confidence. “And they’re all tainted with our selfish ambitions. You desire righteousness, a better future for Hell’s Kitchen, but more than anything, you desire release for that darkness that has been boiling just underneath the surface of your skin.”

Much to his surprise, Matt stepped forward and closed the distance between them, his pace swift and determined. He came to a halt in front of him, the warmth of his body engulfing his. He smelled of blood and sweat, the fight of earlier still clinging to his body.

“And what do you desire?” He asked.

“I desire …” Wesley paused, thinking about the question, because he had no interest in lying. With Matt, a twisted truth was much more interesting than a well-phrased lie. “I desire for people to stop underestimating me.”

He carded his fingers through Matt’s short, brown hair and, before the man could pull away, startled at the sudden contact, Wesley’s hand turned into a fist, Matt’s hair caught between his fingers.

Matt winced and squeezed his eyes shut.

Wesley leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of Matt’s ear. “We’ll continue to play our games,” He whispered with a promise in his voice, “And we’ll see what happens. Perhaps I’ll fall into the pit of my own making, but maybe, just maybe, _you_ will fall into it and with the way things are going …”

He pulled Matt’s head back a little, just enough so he could stare into those damaged eyes and when his free hand slipped down Matt’s chest, down his stomach and towards his crotch, he could see his pupils dilate with arousal and lust. His touch was light, barely a tease, but Matthew leaned into his hand nonetheless. His lips parted with a silent sigh.

“Well,” Wesley smiled, satisfied at the reaction, “It looks like you already have one foot in.”


End file.
